


The Cold Light of Day

by Dusty



Series: Conversations In The Car [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, poignancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty/pseuds/Dusty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the night before, James goes back to work, and the woman known as M is alone with her thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold Light of Day

**Author's Note:**

> M isn't M anymore, so I will be adopting 'Olivia Mansfield' from now on. I hope you can make that adjustment with me. It's definitely harder for her...

**Olivia**

It was so silent. She remembered peaceful mornings, when nothing lingered in her mind, just the aroma of coffee, the promise of getting lost in a crossword, and Tchaikovsky on Radio 3. But she couldn’t be sure how long ago that was.

Stationed on the sofa, she slowly stretched her bare feet out in front of her and thought about booking a pedicure. She hadn’t much cared for her toes – no one could see those. She could, she supposed, book a manicure as well. Get her hair done. She could do anything. She pulled her feet in and tucked them underneath her. They felt rough against her satin pyjamas.

She smiled to herself. Yes, she could do anything. But right now, she felt like doing absolutely nothing. The thought didn’t alarm her as much as she expected it to. Had Bond really been that much of a tonic? She glanced at the clock: 10am. He’d be receiving a bollocking right about now. She smirked and got up off the sofa.

She padded through to the kitchen to replenish her coffee. The morning light seemed to follow her. It felt like a new day. She knew it was of course, but hadn’t imagined she would feel new herself as well.

She wasn’t expecting to see him. She almost didn’t want to – easier that way. Right now, she was at peace with where she was. For the first time since her ‘transition’ she felt some measure of relief at not being needed at work.

She watched the coffee percolate and stretched her neck as her mind wondered. She might not see him for weeks, even months. And he couldn’t be in touch, nor tell her anything about his mission. And if he did, she’d have to tell him off. She laughed at the absurdity of it, but felt so touched by the magic of them becoming so much closer, she could only feel gratitude. What an incredible gift.

She bit her lip as she caught her reflection in the microwave door. _At my time of life._ She chuckled to herself again as she poured the coffee. And just like that her heart sank. She shouldn’t have done it. What if she’d compromised him in some way? Was this her legacy? Toying with young, dangerous men.

Her hand trembled as she lifted her mug and she had to immediately place it back down. This was the mug that her late husband had bought her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

**James**

He left the interview room, using all of his reserve not to glare at Mallory, who was undoubtedly standing behind the two way mirror. He managed to walk stoically into the corridor, clenching his fists. He waited patiently, albeit fuming inwardly, outside Mallory’s office. Eve made him a cup of tea. He was so chastened he didn’t even try to flirt with her.

“Thought I’d find you sulking,” said Mallory light heartedly, appearing in the doorway. “Come on, OO7.”

“Sir,” acknowledged James, following him into his office.

Mallory’s eyes were warm as he regarded his agent.

“There there, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

James scowled back at him.

Mallory tutted. “OO7, if you don’t like being disciplined, may I suggest you behave yourself? Now come on, I have your next assignment here.”

Glad to at least move onto real work, James took a deep breath and met Mallory’s stern gaze with some contrition. “Sorry, sir,” he said, accepting the file that was being handed to him.

“And don’t make me go through that again. I have got better things to do.”

“I’ll try.”

“Yes you will. Now, you’re to go to Jordon. You’ll be provided with documentation on your lunch date.”

“My lunch date?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. 12noon at Phillipe’s,” Mallory informed him. “It’s your second date with Elena.”

“Elena? She sounds invigorating.” James grinned.

Mallory gave him a deadly glare and James’ smile vanished. “My predecessor didn’t put up with that and neither will I,” he warned.

James’ mouth fell open as he thought about what Mallory’s predecessor has indeed been putting up with. “Of course not. I’m sorry, M.” He managed not to blush or chuckle, after all, he was a secret agent. There may have been some laughter in his eyes, however, as Mallory was scrutinising him very closely, and crossly.

James shifted on his feet. “I should probably go then…?”

“I think that would be a good idea, OO7. Get out there and earn your keep.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled James, and he swiftly exited the office.

**Olivia**

She was back on the sofa. She had regained some of the inner stillness she’d felt earlier, and tried hard to remember her psych training. How to keep a balanced mind... Your brain is a courtroom and every time you level an accusation at yourself, you have to also offer a defence that matches the severity of the crime you are charged with.  Yes, she’d broken some rules. But these weren’t children, they were grown men. But she was in a position of power and influence and should have avoided them.

With a deep breath she reminded herself she was only human, and this a broken world. What little comforts are available shouldn’t come at such a high price. Yet so many people had died because of her, because of Tiago, because of the evil of his torturers. She winced as she remembered his face, the cyanide. Even with her eyes screwed shut, the faces of her staff, her agents, her friends who had all died in Raoul Silva’s reckless pursuit of her, rose in her mind’s eye.

She stood abruptly and crossed the room to her laptop. She opened it and it came to life. She’d been checking her emails earlier that morning. She opened a file marked ‘Dennis’. Inside were scanned old letters, then emails, all catalogued by date. Dennis had taught her early in her career that keeping a body count would drive her insane. She’d tried to at least balance the score by keeping stock of her successes; agents who she’d run who’d gone from strength to strength, lived long enough to transition out of danger and into a desk job, or another life altogether. But it was all nothing compared with death; endless, needless death.

As a double-O herself, she’d never appreciated at the time just how touch and go her whole life was. She thought she had – she thought she knew. But it was something else, getting older and gaining a fuller understanding of the vulnerability of these young men and women.

She opened an email, dated November 23rd 1997\. She’d flagged it as important. It was the one she re-read most often.

_“We are inside a terrible game, Olli, and none of us know why. Of course we can walk away, but once you know the world is at war, that people are dying, that humanity must be fought for and that you are one of the few who have the capacity to see it, you can’t just live a normal life. You can’t stop scanning the shadows. You can’t just go back to reading the papers on a Sunday and not think to yourself that the real news – the real horrors, are nowhere near this published pulp. You can't buy the bullshit. You can’t un-see the battlefield.”_

She read on with a dry swallow. She missed Dennis. He’d been like a father to her.

_“This is bigger than us, and always will be. So very much bigger than you. Let’s say you douse the fire, then afterwards someone informs you that the fire was started in order to eradicate some dreaded contagion. Now you have contributed towards the flourishing of a disease that could kill thousands. Is that your fault when your job is to fire fight? We can only see so far, even with the best intelligence in the world. You may make a terrible mistake or do something you know to be wrong or illegal, then find by pure luck as the story unfolds you’ve unwittingly saved lives and changed nations. The same in reverse, you could do everything right, follow every damn rule in the book to the letter, but then wake up and find you’ve lost everything. So totally unfair. Which is why, my dear Olli, you must pay heed to your instincts as well as your brilliant mind. Logic doesn't always know best.”_

Tears were rolling down her face as the familiar words resonated deep inside her. He’d guessed about Tiago and been so incredibly good to her when she felt she could turn to no-one. The heaviness lifted from her heart as she allowed herself to weep.

Some shuddering breaths later, she blinked the tears away and read the post script.

_P.S. It is all about intention. That is why it isn’t murder without premeditation. What do you intend, my love?_

She smiled at the screen and wiped her tears away. It was time to find a hobby.

**James**

Lunch with Elena had been illuminating. She filled him in further on his brief and would be meeting him out there, further into the mission. Elena was fluent in Arabic, Spanish and English, and pretty yet robust. She spent most of the time smirking at him – she’d clearly been warned. She had a quip for every remark he made. He smiled into his soup de jour as he recognised no overwhelming need to sweet talk her, still enjoying the haze from all the love making the night before. He enjoyed Elena’s company nonetheless, her olive skin, her pert breasts. She was amusing. Diverting.

She’d bestowed him with a small range of effective tech and briefly explained how things worked, explaining that Q was busy with an urgent operation. Then their light lunch was over, and James found himself with little time to spare before grabbing his limited luggage and heading to Heathrow.

Everything planned out for him, he had little else to do but relax in the cab on the way there. He couldn’t call her – he’d had to leave all traces of himself, including his phone, behind with MI6. And he could hardly get a message to her any other way. He smiled. He trusted her to trust him. He trusted her to be absolutely fine. All he had to do was come back alive.

**Olivia**

She had showered, dressed, made lunch, laundered the bed linen, sorted through her correspondence drawer and was making lists of different things to do for that week; friends to catch up with, shopping to get, grandchildren to spoil, meeting Pauline and Cathy, both retired ex-agents, and following a couple of leads into things she’d never had the time to do, until now.

Her concentration wavered as she became vaguely aware of the jet passing over her house. She sucked on her pen, the distant engine noise intruding as she tried to catch back her thoughts. She looked at the clock. 4pm.

She smiled sadly, feeling the stillness and emptiness of the room. “Spaces to fill”, she mumbled, before recovering her train of thought. 

She added ‘lube’ to her shopping list, and giggled.


End file.
